My World
by blob80
Summary: A collection of three shorts detailing snippets from Vino's everyday life. Post-anime. —Claire Stanfield/Chane Laforet—
1. 1

_Disclaimer: I don't own Baccano._

* * *

Claire's fingers wrapped behind Chane's neck, so he could tilt her head up to meet his. He generally thought of himself as a very patient man, especially when concerning his beloved, but right now his own eagerness ruined whatever iota of self-control he liked to think he had. Chane was small and soft against his frame. A bit cooler than he imagined she'd be, but a comfortable fit nevertheless. The entire situation reminded him of that warm feeling he had whenever one of his limbs slipped from out of the covers in the middle of the night. He was simply bringing it back in to warm it up.

Without preamble, he drew her towards him.

Closer.

 _Not enough._

Closer.

But before he could bring her all the way, and before the nigh instantaneous decisiveness his profession demanded from him reared its head, Chane launched forward, clearly tired of his pace. It was so surprising the way she just _moved—_ against him; against his expectations. Without even thinking about it, she once again cemented the fact that she was alive and real. More than that, she was here with him now. Chane wasn't just another figment that his overactive imagination conjured to keep him company in this majestic world of his. She was an anomaly. One that he wanted to keep by his side long after the rest of the world turned to dust along with him.

Chane crushed herself to him, and he shuddered from the force. Claire shivered from the foreign touch of lips against his own, but all coherent thought was lost as soon as she moved. Careful at first, despite her initial enthusiasm. The kiss was chaste, cautious, and tenderer than anything he'd ever known.

But then the moment passed, and when her shoulders eased and he mastered himself enough to return her soft press of lips, the rest of the world turned to dust. In that one instant of fervent desperation, passion and fire coiled together in his stomach. Claire matched everything she bared before him, then upped it tenfold. She shrunk back in the face of his ardor. Startled, yet pleased. Ignorant to how simple it was for him to up the ante. He'd loved her for so long, and now finally being able to express it only made him press harder against her. He'd wanted this too much to show restraint now.

No matter how close Chane got, it wasn't enough. It would never be. The pragmatic part of him leashed his own greed, before it grew into something unreasonable. Something that she might not be prepared to face just yet. But not two minutes in, and he was already failing miserably. Because he knew— _knew—_ that if given the privilege, he could be blessed with a lifetime of gasping breaths, scant space, and heated exchanges, and it still wouldn't be enough.

He'd seen hate enough times to see how it changed a man. But he'd seen love do it, too. And when Chane's fingers twitched from where they rested over his chest, it was, indeed, love that spread through him.

 _Love,_ Claire thought, as he hauled her up. It was such an odd thing. Those four letters held so much weight in them. They turned his entire world broad and small all at once. It felt like the sun had been fitted all into a single person to shower her in brilliance.

Claire leashed himself to her, but he wasn't bothered in the least—something he didn't think possible. His chest expanded with heat at the mere mention of her name. Just the thought of seeing her put him on edge in a way all of those other women he'd met and proposed to never had. She became a solid pillar in his world. A weakness and a strength. She made him _want_ to come home to their small New York townhouse after a job. And whenever she was injured, the fuzzy feeling in his chest would swiftly turn into black-bottled rage that demanded retribution against her attackers.

"Chane," he whispered against her lips. As much for a distraction as the need to say it.

He watched as she opened her eyes half-mast, before smiling at him. Her cheeks were red. Claire gave her a grin reserved only for her and observed the red stain move all the way up to her ears. Distantly, he noticed that she was wearing the fitted black dress that he'd gifted her three months ago. She wore it often. He made a mental note to get more in a similar style, before meeting her eyes and returning to the moment with her.

Chane's gaze invited him closer. When all he did was continue staring, her hands tugged at the lapels of his overcoat and she did it herself.

Claire gathered her in his arms. His head fell to her neck, where he inhaled deeply, before inching backwards until they both fell onto the bed in a mess of breathless pants and intertwined limbs. Chane sighed into his mouth, and he pulled her closer. Claire swallowed every sudden inhale, memorized every drag of her fingers across his skin. He stored up the moments like a man turning for one last glimpse at the sea.

When she pulled away to breathe, he chased her, appalled by his own desire. He could bear it, he thought, if the world diminished to only this. Because Claire knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that he'd be perfectly content to live the rest of his life in the spaces between these soft, measured breaths.

It was at that exact moment that he felt it. A thin chain being forged between them. Shining, twisted links of metaphysical iron and gold that bound him to her in something deeper than either of them knew. His chest burned. Not with pain, but with desire. With the need to never be so far from her that she was out of his sight ever again.

Claire pulled away just long enough to take in her half-lidded gaze and red cheeks. His own face burned brilliantly at the sight. He felt the heat spread all the way down to his neck, but he couldn't find it in himself to care.

The only thing that mattered now were his emotions, and how they swelled as proudly as a hawk unfurling its wings after an age of captivity, as profoundly as sunlight dribbling over a man that had been buried too long.

 _Bright..._

She was so bright.

And he needed more.

* * *

 _A/N: Just some random bunny I needed released from my cage of a mind._ _Please Review._


	2. 2

_Disclaimer: I don't own Baccano._

* * *

Nev twisted this way and that. It was dark. And he…

He couldn't see.

"Welcome to my world _ **,"**_ a man said in his ear. It was sudden enough to startle a shout from his lips. "I'm before you today because you targeted an important woman to me. If you're ready to kill, then I assume you're ready to die as well. I'll give you a moment to prepare yourself."

That whisper was all the warning Nev received, before something tepid pooled in the pit of his stomach. It was a welcome change from the never-ending cold he'd felt only moments before. One that distracted him from his lack of sight. He felt himself floating, the ground long gone beneath him. Nothing anchored him here. Only his thoughts and that voice that bordered on unreal. The pervading warmth was soft at first, bleeding into his veins. A steady trickle of comfort.

Then, all at once, it became unbearable. The forgiving stream turned into an all-out gush of heat. It erupted from his core. He heard, then felt the distinct sizzle of flesh. Every heartbeat throbbed from head to toe. But Nev wasn't ignorant enough to not realize its source.

He'd been broken down and stitched back together again enough times to know how certain hitmen within the mafia operated. Oftentimes, they doubled as torturers that liked to use cement to harden their enemies. Others preferred kicking the back of their victims' heads against sidewalks to permanently break their teeth. There were a fair few, however, that preferred to play with fire. And this man was clearly one of them. He hadn't pissed off any mafia bosses in a long while though, so what in the world was this asshole doing after him? Or maybe he was wrong, and it wasn't someone affiliated with the underworld. Was he just a sorry victim then?

Like hell he was.

Despite his fortitude, Nev still shuddered at the feeling of heated iron plates being pressed into his stomach. It was a flood of intense pain that made his ribs cave in submission. The heat seemed almost like a sentient being that dug around his insides, threaded in his limbs, and pierced its way between the soft, pink tissue of his organs. It flanked every layer of muscle, trying to tear him apart at the seams.

And then he was screaming.

Nev didn't know when the bindings around his eyes vanished, but there was no time to worry about such banal concerns. Above him, stood a man with red hair and even redder eyes. As far as looks went, the man had a decidedly handsome face. His eyes and lips were framed by laugh lines that suggested a life filled with happiness—even now. There was no demented smile on his lips or wicked glare pointed down at him. Only concentration.

The man's sanity scared him more than he'd ever admit.

Nev tried to move away from the explosive pain the man caused, but something hard was behind him, and he unintentionally slammed the back of his head into it in a move so harsh that he swore the base of his skull cracked from the impact. He smelt the rusty scent of iron. Felt it around his shoulders, too. Again, he tried to get away. His movements were jerky and graceless, fueled by the same kind of life-threatening desperation he'd felt so many times before. Only this time, there was no escape. His wrists and ankles were bound by iron fetters that clanked with each involuntary rise of his chest.

Nev wailed when the man lifted the steel plate with tongs, only to place it higher on his body. His shout was high enough to split his own ears with the sound. Between the hazy blurs of hurt, he realized that he was laying atop a stone slab. It reminded him of the heinous tributes he used to read about in books, done by those backwards tribes that worshiped violent gods. Was this man one of them?

No. He couldn't be.

" _W—W_ hat do you want?" Nev somehow managed to screech out. His body _burned._ So much that he couldn't adequately comprehend the pain. A part of it was even numbing at this point, which couldn't be good.

Nev's frantic eyes met his cold ones. The man stopped for a moment to stare deep into them. Listless, as if _he_ was the uninvited spectator in all of this. Then the moment passed, and before he knew it, the man was smiling at him.

The sight of it was enough to send Nev into hysterics.

"Has the pain given you amnesia?" the man said, amused. His voice was silky. Too serene for what he was doing to him. "I get that you're after Father-in-law's immortality, but you chose the wrong hostage. You even injured her in your idiotic attempt—and that, I can't forgive. Really, you should just be thankful that you didn't get his secret. Because I've already decided that even if you were to become immortal, I'd just torture you until your body forgot how to repair itself."

Nev opened his mouth to speak, but the words bent in his throat from sheer surprise. So, this was about _that_? But why would he care a—

Before Nev could even think about mastering himself enough to form a proper sentence, the man was already dropping the flaming-hot plate back over his blistered chest.

His eyes widened.

" _W—W_ ait!" Nev suddenly yelled in a voice that didn't belong to him. It was creaky. Half-choked from the terror that clogged his throat. "Wa _i—n_ o. Stop! Please! I'll give you anything you want."

The man didn't seem to hear.

"My name is Vino," he whispered. Nev's eyes widened in a brief instant of understanding, before fear consumed him completely. "This world is mine. You can't offer me anything, but the satisfaction of this moment."

Vino placed the plate over his chest, then with his free hands, grabbed iron forceps that shone white-red from heat.

In the distance, birds flapped their wings to get away from the sound of screaming.


	3. 3

_Disclaimer: I don't own Baccano._

* * *

Luck and Firo watched, amused, as the legendary freelance assassin, Vino, moved from shop to shop like a clucking hen. It was interesting to see how one of the most feared men in the underworld interacted with the general public, who were none the wiser.

Women's eyes lingered on his lean form, while men turned to look at his blood-red hair and eyes—an unusual combination anywhere. Despite the secrecy demanded of him by his occupation, Claire stood out like a sore thumb. He had to actually _try_ to make himself scarce, and neither were sure if that was a good or a bad thing. Claire really did belong on a stage surrounded by cheers and adoring fans. His skills certainly deserved applause.

"Are you really shopping for more gifts, Claire?" Firo asked.

"Felix," Claire corrected with a dismissive wave of his hand. "And of course I am. I need to pick up some more flowers, too. Before the ones on the dining room wilt."

" _More_ flowers?" Firo laughed. "She'll be happy."

"You think so? She prefers dresses over them though. Maybe I should get another—"

"You already got four dresses," Luck cut in. He lit up a cigarette. "And aren't you supposed to be bringing me to meet her? Why are _you_ bringing so many gifts? You're making me look bad."

Claire spread his arms out wide and exclaimed, "So, she knows I've been thinking about her!"

His voice made a gaggle of older, sour-faced women turn to look at them. Firo covered his face with his hat in embarrassment at his childhood friend's antics. He would bleed for Claire, but did he have to be so exuberant all the time? Gesticulating wildly was perfectly acceptable in shady corners. Out in the open, on the other hand, was another matter entirely.

"I'm sure she knows that even without the gifts," Firo said once the women finally stopped staring. "Whenever I see you two, you're always hugging."

"Oh?" Luck asked. The corner of his lips were twisted up into a half-smile. "Maybe I should hold off on meeting her then."

"Nonsense!" Vino said. "Firo is just jealous. Don't worry. You'll have your shot soon enough—with Ennis, I mean. Not Chane."

"Claire!"

"My name is Felix."

" _Felix,_ " Firo amended. "Don't just say whatever you w _a_ —"

"You've lost him," Luck said.

"What?"

"Look."

Firo turned to find Claire standing in front of a weapons shop with faded brick walls and a cheery yellow tiled roof. The man at the counter counted among the broadest Firo had ever seen. He had a scar that sealed his left eye shut and a toothy grin that suggested a wild youth. The man watched Claire with the ease of someone used to dealing with him. His friend clearly came there often. Claire pointed enthusiastically at a knife with a curved edge, before going off on a tangent that Firo's ears didn't care to register.

"Is he getting a knife for himself?" Luck asked.

"It's a gift."

Luck blinked. Very slowly. "Someone should tell him that women don't like knives."

"She's different."

"I was expecting that, considering she's Claire's fiancée, but just _how_ different are we talking ab—"

"Chane!" they suddenly heard Claire shout. "What are you doing here?"

They watched as Claire bounded up to a pale woman with short hair and golden eyes. She donned a form-fitting black dress that would tantalize anyone, but those that had been interested immediately turned away at the sight of Claire. Perhaps they instinctively sensed danger if they were to let their eyes linger for longer than a second.

Chane held an umbrella in her hands, then pointed up at the grey sky. Claire followed her finger up. Realization dawned upon him, before he grabbed her hand to place a kiss against the back of it. He said something too low for their ears to catch, but it made her cheeks light up beautifully.

"So, she's the one that managed to ensnare him," Luck said.

"What do you think?"

"She's got guts."

"Guts? I'm not denying it, but what makes you say that?"

"Felix can kill someone with a finger," Luck explained. He wagged his pointer finger back and forth for emphasis. "And he currently has all ten of them on her. She chained herself to a lion."

Firo laughed.

Claire turned at the sound. He was grinning like a boy on his birthday, as he waved them over. The way his hand settled easily around Chane's waist made them both crack a smile. Luck and Firo shared one more glance, filled with hope for themselves and joy for their friend, before heading towards the engaged couple. If even someone like Claire Stanfield could find love, then so could they.

Behind them, a ray of light bled through the clouds.

It shined gold.

* * *

 _\- End -_

* * *

 _A/N:_ _ **If any of you are interested in my writing beyond fanfiction, then I have a fantasy series up for sale. URL on profile.**_ _Please Review._


End file.
